


Neon is bad for hungovers.

by PsycoticLollipop



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, rovinsky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:05:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3602616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsycoticLollipop/pseuds/PsycoticLollipop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompt: “i woke up this morning to find you sitting in my living room with a goat in a poncho??? who are you??? why is the goat wearing a poncho??? how did you get the goat in here i live on the 12th floor???” au</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neon is bad for hungovers.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr promp. Not my propiety, not my idea. Non native english speaker. Un-betad.

Ronan wakes up with the sun in his fucking face, a raven in his fucking bed and the hungover of the fucking century in his head. 

He is the most surprised about the sun. Because Chainsaw likes to get into bed with him when she’s cold and with how much he drank last night (the part he can remember) the hungover was to be expected. But why the fuck didn’t he close the goddamn blinds. 

Dragging himself to the livingroom is painful and slow and seriously why the fuck didnt he remember to close the blinds this is bullshit. He avoids hitting his head with the kitchen’s doorframe by a milimiter. The smugness of it is starting to shine through his bad mood when he hears a loud crash. Then he hits his head with the doorframe because what the fuck. 

It’s big, smaller than a horse but still fucking big, hairy, in the middle of his livingroom and wearing a cheery colored poncho. The noise must’ve been his psp’s screen craking under the fucking goat’s pawn. Is it even called a pawn? He can feel his mouth hanging open as he raises a hand to his temple to try and calm the throbbing. He is 100% sure he didn’t dream a fucking goat to live. He would’ve never put the poor thing into such an ugly piece of fabric. God it’s neon colored. 

He makes a beeline to the medicine cabinet and swallow the ibuprofen dry. When he goes back to the livingroom the goat is still there and still wearing the ugliest poncho in the fucking world. But he also notices the boy lying asleep in his sofa. He’s not wearing a shirt or shoes and his jeans are ripped and even burned in some places. He’s all sharp angles and Ronan can count his ribs from the other side of the room and he looks like he belongs more in a morgue than in his sofa, and he’s beautiful. 

Ronan goes back to the kitchen again and fills a glass of water. Walking back to the livingroom and throwing it in whoever’s face feels like only one move. It also feels like the logical thing to do. Because somewhere in his hungover memory he can recall that whoever this bitch is, he deserves it. 

The boy jerks awake opening bloodshot eyes and stabbing him with them. He automatically retreats in the sofa getting as far away from Ronan as he can get. Then apparently his own hungover kicks in and he bends over himself bracing his head with both hands. 

“Dude, what the fuck...”

“Who the fuck are you. What the fuck are you doing in my house. And why the fuck is there a goat in my livingroom.” Ronan is asking, but somehow it sounds more like an angry and rude accusation than a question at all. 

The boy shots an accusatory glanze at him and for a moment Ronan thinks he’s going to get up and throw a punch just like that. But then looks around him to the goat and smiles, openly and obviously pleased with himself. Ronan feels like he got punched anyway. 

“I don’t have an idea of what you’re talking about, dude.” he says getting up and walking around him. After a quick search he finds one of his shoes under the coffee table. The other on one of the lamps near the window. They’re a neon pink and there’s no way this fucker doesn’t know about the fucking goat.

The boy looks at him when he finishes lacing the neon yellow shoelaces. Still shirtless and still beautiful and still looking smugly at the goat. Ronan wants to wipe the smirk out of his face. 

“Name’s Kavinsky, by the way.” 

No one extends a hand. No one smiles. But Kavinsky tilts his head, for the first time since he woke looking at Ronan as if he considered him more important than the fucking goat. 

“Ronan”

They consider each other for a moment and then Kavinsky smiles again. This one spreads slowly over his hollowed cheeks and makes him feel something much more than the drunk frat boy he surely is. Isn’t he? He surely is. 

“Well, princess, since I don’t think breakfast was included in whatever you were offering last night, can I borrow a shirt before I fuck off?” 

Ronan wants to say no and throw him out. Ronan wants to make him explain the fucking goat. Ronan wants to throw him out with the fucking goat. Then his hungover brain catched in the “offering” bit and he punched him the nose.

Kavinsky retreats, holding a hand to his nose and squinting his eyes at him. He’s not smiling anymore, and he’s obviously angry, but he’s still looking full of pride for himself and it’s pissing off Ronan to no end. 

“Dude, what the fuck’s your damage? Saying no would’ve done” 

That’s the moment Chainsaw picks to come flying from the bedroom and stop over the goat. She lands on it’s head and chirps cheerfully. I like it. Ronan hears. That’s also the moment they both know. 

Dream thing to dream thing. Dreamer to dreamer. For a moment everything in the livingroom stays still. Ronan is looking at the shirtless frat boy in his living room with wide eyes. Of course he’s much more. Of course he had to be. Kavinsky isn’t looking smug or pridefull anymore. He’s white as a sheet and looking... if Ronan couldn’t tell this boy wasn’t scared of anything, he’d say he looked afraid. 

“You know what? Forget about the shirt. I’ll make someone’s day on my way back”

He’s retreating. He’s runing away and both of them know it and it tastes bitter and sour to both of them for very different reasons. 

There’s someone else. I’m not the only one. I’m not the only one. Ronan’s thoughts are going too fast for his brain to catch and process and the boy is already on his way. In the middle of the mess that it’s his head, Ronan catches a thought about how it’s ironic that someone that looks so dead can be a study in constant movement. Stop him. Ask him. I’m not the only one. 

The door closes with a bang and he feels it reververating in his temples. He kicks the table with a groan. Not because he thinks he’s lost Kavinsky. That was definitely a frat boy if Ronan knew one and there weren’t so many fraternities in campus. He wasn’t worried about that. 

But the fucker had left the goat in his fucking livingroom.


End file.
